Where The Wild Things Howl
by TheOtherMaddHatter
Summary: Sherlock had a rather nasty habit of sneaking out the window when he should have been asleep. Well, he doesn't think it's a bad habit, and if you were to ask him, he'd tell you so. He just liked a bit of fresh air after the sun went down, and the window let the Monsters out at night. It was the polite thing to do. -Werewolf!AU-


Sherlock had a rather nasty habit of sneaking out the window when he should have been asleep. Well, he doesn't think it's a bad habit, and if you were to ask him, he'd tell you so. With relish… _at length_, despite his young age of seven. Then he'd more than likely insult your fashion sense for reflecting your poor marriage status or how you most recently failed at work, at life, based on the color of your nail polish or how you wore your hair that day. So after a while, people stopped asking. It didn't mean that they stopped noticing.

It was the reason Mummy Holmes had the gate and wall put in, all around the huge estate up to the lake. So that her son could go out the window at night and be safe. Her peace of mind depended on it, and after consulting with her husband at length about how best to handle the situation, he had agreed this was best. So Sherlock was safe in his own yard, the outside world kept at length by eight foot of stone and security equipment ever fifteen feet. No one could get in, and more importantly, Sherlock couldn't get out.

He'd only tried to scale the wall once, a week after it was completed. It hadn't gone very well, and when he'd gotten to the top, he'd become stuck. Sherlock could see the security cameras turn towards him and freeze, but no one came to get him for two hours. The man who'd left him up there hadn't been back to work since Mummy found out. _At least he hadn't fallen_, his father had placated, _at least he was all right_. But Sherlock didn't feel all right. He didn't think he ever had. There was something wrong and there always had been. It just looked like no one but him noticed the problem.

So Sherlock continued to sneak out the window of his bedroom into the yard below, staying out late into the night until he felt like he could _finally_ sleep. Sometimes he'd go for days before that'd happen. Sometimes it would only take a few hours. It just depended.

On one such night, Sherlock was out by the northern wall, the one that ran just on the border of the large forest preserve that extended into a major part of the country side. He used to go out into the forest at night, until his parents had found out about his trips. That had lead to the wall being built, and now he could only go to the wall and stare up at the trees that hung over the stone mournfully, wishing he could go over the wall as easily as they could. One day he'd be able to climb up the wall into them, one day when he was taller, bigger. Then he could run around in the woods again. He could be free. He could try to fix whatever was wrong with him.

That was the goal.

But today wasn't that day, so just like the night before, Sherlock sat down in the damp grass just along the wall, back pressed into the cool stones. September was just ending now, and the weather was getting cooler and cooler, causing the stones and ground to seep chill into him when he touched them. Sherlock relished it though, especially after he'd turned off his torch to sit in nothing but the light of the full moon, blanketed in the quiet dark. It made him feel very safe, and combined with the comforting silence that the nearby forest offered, it made him feel content. Whole, in a sense. Whole and normal.

Sherlock continued to sit there in the quiet, starring up at the night sky and just thinking for what seemed like hours to him. It might have been, his concept of time while he was thinking was skewed and different from actual time, he knew. But this legitimately felt like hours, and his body was beginning to complain as well. A few parts louder than others, but were easily ignored in favor of the time he had only at night. There was a distinct pressure on his bladder now though, and his legs had that pins-and-needles feeling in them when he uncrossed and stretched them out before him. Yes, he decided, it was probably time to go back up to the house.

Standing up took a bit more work than it usually did for him, but he was blaming it on the fact that his feet and legs were fully asleep, not that he was tired. Of course not, he was a big boy, and big boys didn't go to bed at nine o'clock! And there were things in his room, he was certain, but every time he went hunting for them, they would escape first. Sherlock was pretty sure that they liked the window best, but the cracks on the jamb under his doorway were just as easy for them to get under as an open window. He'd never tell anyone, but part of the reason he went out his window at night -and subsequently left the closet door and window open- was to let them get out before he went to sleep. It was the polite thing to do, he'd decided after waking up to strange noises and unfamiliar shadows on his walls, and so after that he'd started letting the monsters out at night. They had slowly stopped bothering him since he started.

Brushing off his trousers and shaking out the bottom part of his coat came naturally, and when Sherlock was certain that he could successfully walk back to the house without tripping and hurting himself, he made his move to leave… Right as there was a horrific scrabbling noise from the other side of the wall he was leaning against, and something large darkened the moon light above him as it moved over-head. He realized then that something large had easily scaled the wall and thrown itself over, and that whatever it was had now landed a good five or six feet from where he was standing in the wall's shadow. That the something was furry, and making a noise that sounded like a low growl as it circled back and forth in front of him. Sherlock didn't know if it had seen him standing there or not, but decided to stay put just in case it had. Because if this was one of the monsters he let our regularly at night, he didn't want it mad at him for something silly.

The growling didn't stop.

Now Sherlock was certain that the great beast hadn't seen him, and as quietly as he could, he crouched down, low to the ground, hoping to stay out of sight. But as he moved, his coat scraped lightly against the wall, and while it made no sound to human ears, monster one's easily picked it up. The massive head snapped in his direction, glowing blue eyes flashing red momentarily in his direction before it took a lumbering step towards him. Sherlock couldn't help it, he squeezed his eyes shut and dropped down the rest of the way to the ground, curdling inwards with his knees pressed to his forehead, arms wrapped tight around his legs. He could still hear movement, knew that the huge monster was walking to him, preparing to gobble him up. Any minute now it would get him, and that'd be that.

When the last of the light he could see through his closed eyes was blotted out, Sherlock immediately knew that it was upon him. Whatever it was, it was standing right on top of him, and what he assumed to be a snout filled with a huge maw of teeth was poking and prodding about his shoulders and head. He just gripped himself tighter, trying to make himself as small and harmless as possible. That way he would be insignificant to the monster, it would go away if only it would see he wasn't a threat and-

A hard push to the side of his shoulder sent him sprawling to his right, arms flinging themselves down and out to try and catch him, but Sherlock landed on the group in surprise, eyes snapping open. The ground was all that met his vision, and he tried his hardest not to tear his eyes from it. To not find out the form of his attacker.

_Don't look at it, don't look at it, don't look at it…Just curl up and pretend._

But he couldn't help himself. Sherlock glanced up and over his shoulder, straight into the red, red eyes of a huge wolf. A _Dire Wolf_ his brain supplied, but then took it back when the facts started to pour in. _Too big for a Dire Wolf_, his brain said, _and they were extinct anyway_. It couldn't be a Dire Wolf. It just couldn't. There was no way for it to be, and if it was a Dire Wolf, it was one that had been tampered with. Because no wolf breed, living or otherwise, was as large as this one was standing over him now, and no wolf he'd ever heard of had eyes that glowed in the dark. And no breed that he knew of had a mouth that full of pointed teeth or eyes the color of coals.

The realization made him panic, and panic made him twitchy, made him attempt to move. But he didn't get very far when the wolf's mouth closed over the back collar of his coat, pulling back and up, dragging him in the opposite direction and preventing him from running. He squirmed and then thrashed about when he realized what had happened, but each time he did just got him a more insistent tug on his coat, making him jerk back towards the monster even more. Now he was crying, little tears streaming down his face as he tried with all his seven year old might to break free, trying to get away from a monster he had tried to help. But not matter what he did, how hard he pulled, or trashed, or struggled, the wolf wouldn't let him go. The name _Little Red Riding Hood_ flashed in his mind's eye and made him wish Mycroft were here. If his older brother was, he'd know what to do. He was bigger than Sherlock, and stronger, and smarter… He would save him. Mycroft would know how to help him because he always knew everything.

"Mycroft!" His shouting wasn't really all that loud, and on an estate as large as theirs, no one back at the house would be able to hear him. It didn't stop Sherlock from yelling anyway. "Mycroft! Mycroft, help me!"

He'd only shouted Mycroft's name three times before the wolf slammed him down on the ground by whipping its massive head around, the jacket pulling him off his feet and down towards the dirt. Sherlock landed with a solid thud, the wind knocked out of him, his yell cut off mid-stream. He lay on his back starring up at the wolf above him, the gleaming red of its eyes burning holes in him as it leaned down close to his face and growled deep and low in its massive throat. The sound was a thousand sounds of promised punishment for Sherlock's behavior, and before he knew it, Sherlock felt wet heat spread in the front of his pants and trousers. The realization of what had just happened hit him just as hard as the ground had when the wolf slammed him back down. Sherlock sobbed harder.

The wolf blinked down at him once and reared back.

Sherlock only had a moment's worth of notice before it did so, and when he realized that he was no longer pinned down by the bulk of it, he turned on his side and curled up tightly, embarrassed and afraid. He'd just wet himself in fright, and there was no way he was getting away now. Not with the wolf only a few feet away, and him in no position to run now. Not with wet trousers, not with how hard he was crying, nearly gasping for breath. It was the end, he was going to die, and he was going to do it with a snotty nose and wet trousers. He was seven, for god's sake, he wasn't supposed to still wet his trousers like some infant! That, indignantly coupled with the shame and humiliation, fear, and pain, made the situation nearly as painful as the broken arm he'd had only last year. A sharp stinging pain followed by a dull throb deep within his chest and abdomen. Sherlock hoped it was a case of broken ribs over some silly emotional trauma his Father consistently talked about when he was home from work.

So it came as a great surprise when Sherlock felt a wet stripe being planted across his upturned and exposed cheek, followed by another, and another, until Sherlock realized just what the wolf was doing while he'd been fretting the injustices of his seven-year-old body. Sherlock blinked twice then carefully turned his head a fraction to gaze up at the wolf who was once more standing over him, this time with its tongue lolling out one side of its mouth. Its eyes were no longer a predator red, but a watery blue, and the wolf seemed to watch him with intent, moving its head slightly every time Sherlock shifted. One hand came up to touch at his cheek, and when Sherlock used it and the sleeve on his wrist to wipe at his damp face, the wolf sat back on its haunches and bobbed its head once.

Why had the wolf been licking his face?

Sherlock blinked again as he chanced rolling over a little bit more, wide eyes taking in the confused-looking wolf's face. Well, if a wolf could look confused, and if they could, this wolf definitely fit the bill. But what had he expected to happen when he threatened a child? Certainly Sherlock was no ordinary seven year old -he was far too advanced for his age, his Mummy had said so- but he was still little. And although the whole 'wetting his trousers' deal was an accident that he was blaming on the fact that he just really had needed the restroom, he had still clearly been afraid. Sherlock thought hard as he rolled over onto his back fully, starring up, blue eyes meeting blue in the bright full moon light overhead. The wolf blinked, and so did Sherlock, the silence of the estate yard settling around them. The only noise that seemed to break the heavy silence was the sound of rustling leaves that moved with the late night wind, branches over them both swaying gently in time with each gust. Nothing dared move: not Sherlock, not the wolf, and not any of the living creatures in the woods around them. It was as if the world had begun to hold its breath.

But it was shattered when the wolf leaned back a bit from Sherlock's face and yipped down at him, mouth rapidly snapping with the sound, the flash of teeth only visible for an instant before they disappeared. Sherlock jerked back at the noise, closing his eyes tight again, waiting for whatever the wolf was going to do. But it just continued to sit there and make some sort of noise randomly until Sherlock got tired of laying on his back and sat up. When he did, the yipping stopped and the great wolf bobbed its head in an approving manner once more before walking to his side and nudging him up with his snout. So Sherlock stood up, the massive head of the wolf helping him to stand and brush some of the yard debris from his coat and trousers.

Sherlock scowled at the wet stain that had spread down the front and right leg of said trousers, no doubt having soaked through the his back due to the way he'd been laying on the ground, and grimaced as he pulled the damp fabric away from where it was clinging to his skin. The clothing would be fine after a good wash, he was certain, but his pride wasn't as easy to fix as a pair of soiled trousers. He could take them off here and leave them out here, but then someone would surely find them, one of the yards men no doubt, and then even more people would know of his accident. He'd have to wear them back.

The wolf gave the small of his back a solid nudge, long snout bumping him almost gently in the direction of the house. Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised in an almost perfect mirror image of the face Mycroft made when Sherlock said or did something that he knew to be questionable. He'd almost gotten the tilt of his head down perfectly.

"Are you walking me back?" Sherlock's voice was still a bit shaky, the residual effects of the adrenaline still coursing through his blood. His hands were shaking too, but he was ignoring that by pulling his sleeves down over them tightly. "You can't, you know. They'll know. In fact, I'm surprised they don't already. Surely you saw the cameras before you leapt over the wall?"

The wolf cocked its head at Sherlock's question before looking at said cameras, leaving Sherlock to marvel at the fact that the wolf seemed to understand everything that he had just said. It didn't seem all that bothered by the swiveling cameras that dotted down the wall, or the ones that Sherlock knew were visible from the lamp post that marked the half-way point back to the house. In fact, it didn't really seem all that bothered by anything but him, and Sherlock thought that was only because it felt bad for terrifying him.

The wolf chuffed and shook its head once before giving Sherlock another solid nudge with its massive head, motioning with it back to the house.

"Fine, fine. But when you see you, when something happens, I warned you." Sherlock knew it sounded petulant, but it wasn't like someone wasn't going to notice the huge wolf now walking him back to the house. And he doubted anyone would wait two hours before coming to him if that happened. "Come on, let's do this. I'm cold."

They began walking, and after a while Sherlock's much shorter legs had to pick up pace in order to keep up with the much larger strides of the wolf at his side. He was almost jogging before he got fed up with the pace and grabbed a handful of fur on its flank, giving a sharp tug on it before stopping completely. The wolf turned and snarled lightly before stopping to see what the problem was, eyes flashing for only a moment in the dim light. Sherlock just glared at it before tugging once more, a frown on his little face.

"You're going too fast! I can't keep up! Your legs are much too large for me to keep pace with." He said, lips pursed at the end of his complaint. "Go slower!"

The wolf just grumbled before nodding his compliance, waiting for Sherlock to continue walking and to set the pace. When he did, he did not let go of the wolf's fur, but relaxed his grip enough to just have a gentle handle on it's large frame. A comforting gesture Sherlock would deny.

"Much better. But, what do I call you? I can't call you wolf, that's just ridiculous." Sherlock scratched the fur he was holding lightly before resettling his grip, giving the wolf hid full attention. "You need a name."

The wolf just starred at him, patiently, as if to say 'you know I can't talk, right?' without making a sound. But it was a wolf, and it couldn't say anything. Wolves can't talk.

"Oh, right. I guess you can't tell me your name, if you even have a name." The wolf prodded his shoulder, and Sherlock took it as a 'yes' to the name. "You have a name then. Alright, can I guess it?"

The wolf shook its head affirmative once with a quick motion, still walking with Sherlock at his side. The young boy thought about it, thought about how it would go about guessing a giant wolf's name.

"Okay, I think I have it. Does your name have two letters?"

The wolf shook its head in the negative.

"Three letters?"

Once more, the wolf said no.

"Four letters?"

The wolf yipped and gave the affirmative, meaning he had a four letter name. Good, that was something Sherlock could work with.

"Is your name common?"

Yes.

"Does your name start with a vowel?"

No.

"A consonant then. Alright, let's see. Most common male names beginning with a consonant in the region are N, P, S, and J. That saying, are any of those the beginning letter to your name?"

Yes.

"Is it N?"

No.

"P?"

No.

"S?"

No.

"J then. Let me see, what are some names that start with the letter J. We have a Joey in my class, but you don't look like a Joey. I know a Jack, and a Jeff, Jace, and a Jake."

No.

"None of those? Um, okay then. Let's see, Jean, John..."

A yip, and a quick nod in his direction had Sherlock stopping in his tracks.

"Joh, your name is John?" The wolf nodded again, and gave a slightly teeth-filled smile. "Alright, John the overly large wolf who has to be a dream because no normal wolf is as large as you are. I'm Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, and I'm going to be a detective when I'm older. That's how I deduced your name."

The wolf whined high in its mouth, a slightly warbling noise that seemed to agree with Sherlock's impressive detective skills. It made Sherlock proud, and he stood up taller as they continued to walk closer to the house.

"We're going to be friends for a long time, John. I know that based on how your acting now. Very loyal and patient, despite the urge you're displaying to leave." Sherlock nodded his head. "I am glad I found a friend. I thought I'd never have one. But I'm going to keep you, John. And we'll be friends forever."

The wolf -John- seemed to agree.


End file.
